


until our ribs get tough

by ygrittebardots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood, Childhood Friends, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrittebardots/pseuds/ygrittebardots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> She doesn’t like kneelers’ laws and doesn’t pretend to understand their ways, but what she knows is that she hates it when Jon goes like this, when he goes all still and clamps up his jaw and gets this look in his eye like he doesn’t know whether to cry or yell or just curl up on himself.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Ygritte grows up in Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until our ribs get tough

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tumblr prompt, "Don’t listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them."

“You look like a drowned rat,” she laughs, and shrieks when the cold raindrops buried in his hair drive into her already-drenched skin, and pushes him from her with all the righteous fury of her eleven years. The stable loft is warm and damp, and at his rare smile, a sheepish grin on the best of days, the sound of thunder outside falls away.

Jon Snow is quiet and often ignored, but he is observant and quick and full of a brightness she wonders at because no one but she and his brother ever seem to see it.

Jon Snow is the only one who ever really looks at her like she’s _her_.

Jon Snow is the only good thing about this place.

So when he hushes her abruptly, she doesn’t mind so much that they’ve tucked into each other so closely here in their hiding spot, one of the many they’ve discovered together since first she was brought to Winterfell some years past. There is a creaking as the stable door swings open, the wet squelch of soaked boots in mud, and she hopes the smell of the fresh-baked loaves cradled in both she and Jon’s arms is not so strong as to give them away.

“I’ve ‘ad it, Bill,” the voice of a kitchen boy floats up from below. “Probably off somewhere fuckin’ ‘is wildling slut, ain’t ‘e?” and suddenly next to her Jon goes very still.

“That’s sick, it is,” comes a second voice. “Boy’s balls ain’t even dropped, I reckon.”

“Bloody bastard can’t ‘elp it, can ‘e, probably,” says the first voice once more, growing fainter as the stable door creaks shut once more, “Bad blood and all, ain’t it?”

She doesn’t like kneelers’ laws and doesn’t pretend to understand their ways, but what she knows is that she hates it when Jon goes like this, when he goes all still and clamps up his jaw and gets this look in his eye like he doesn’t know whether to cry or yell or just curl up on himself. If Da were here - and she tries not to think about that too much, not since Rodrick Cassel put a spear through his gut and looks at her ever since like he’s got the gall to be sorry about it - he’d look Jon square in the eye and tell him to pay them no mind, that a person is only who they are because of what they do. He’d told her that, after the Others took Ma, the night before they scaled the Wall.

But Da’s not here, and Jon is, despite all else, a kneeler.

“Jon,” she says, and he won’t look at her, lips set together in determination, grey eyes set unseeing against the opposite wall. “Jon, look at me.” But still, he will not.

She does not know why she does it, suddenly reaches out and grabs his chin, forcing his gaze to her. She does not expect his hand, either, the one that flashes from nowhere to grip her wrist, or the wildness in his eyes. They stay that way for a moment, breathing each other in, recognising something for the first time that, despite a camaraderie born of being branded outsiders, suddenly explains everything. 

This is how it will be, she realises. He was born to this just as much as she is now chained to it, but they will never be kneelers. Not truly. Not when they have each other now.

“Don’t listen to them,” she hisses through her teeth, and his hold on her wrist tightens. “Don’t you _ever_ listen to them.”


End file.
